Duty Before Desire (18 page)

Sheri took both the glass and the decanter and headed right back out the door.

“
Sheridaaan
.” The marquess's voice held a note of warning.

“Later, Eli. Please.”

Without a backwards glance, Sheri made for the billiards room. After lighting a candelabrum, he spotted a bottle of spirits resting beside a box of cigarillos on a side table. He'd forgotten his brother kept the male sanctuary well stocked with the essentials. He considered returning Lothgard's purloined whiskey, but thought better of it after he downed his first drink and poured another. His lordship could spare the liquor, and Sheri needed ample fortification.

With the whiskey's pleasant burn spreading through his belly, Sheri racked the balls and selected a cue from the rack. Carefully lining up his first shot, he drove the cue ball into the triangular formation with a sharp
crack
.

Sheri had never been much of an academic, but there was an elegance to the clean geometry of billiards that he found appealing. Examining the arrangement of little spheres and picking out shots; exerting just the right degree of force to bounce the cue ball off a cushion so it angled just so and sank a ball into his chosen pocket; the satisfaction of a clear bed … it was all restful in its own way.

Deep into his second game and his third drink, he heard the front bell ring.
McGully. Thank God.
Rounding the corner of the table, he blew out a breath, feeling the smallest part of his nerves ease.

Soon, Poorvaja would be better. When he'd suggested his bargain to Arcadia Parks—his help in locating her ayah in exchange for her hand in matrimony—he never dreamed his half of the deal would be fulfilled so quickly, and without the least effort on his part. While he'd not had a firm plan in place for hunting down a lone nursemaid in a city of half a million inhabitants, he'd thought there would be some process involved. He would have hired a Bow Street Runner, maybe posted a reward notice in the
Times
, that sort of thing. He'd imagined passing along progress reports to his overwrought intended.
Not much to tell, I'm afraid
, he'd say, or,
Happy news, there's been a sighting
. There would have been a certain romance to it: Arcadia beside herself with worry, Sheri the steady pillar she depended upon to lead the rescue effort. She would have been grateful to him for everything he'd done to reunite her with Poorvaja. She'd have felt indebted.

He leaned over the rail, training his eye beyond the cue ball to the cushion behind it, picturing the sharp angle it would take to strike his chosen ball.

But with the search over before it had begun, what hold did he have on Arcadia Parks? What did she need him for? What if … what if she reneged on their agreement and refused to marry him? The cue ball spun wildly, missing his target. Sheri cursed, stalked around the table, and chalked his cue.

Without permission from her guardian, Lord Delafield, Sheri and Arcadia could not be officially betrothed. Her promise alone wasn't enough to bind her to him. In the park earlier, he'd done all he could to ensure the match. He'd publicly kissed her, then announced their names. What he'd not anticipated was the fire that had instantly stoked his groin the instant his lips collided with Arcadia's. The first time he'd encountered her in Hyde Park and he'd lifted her into his arms, he had appreciated the way her soft curves snugged against his body, but nothing had prepared him for the wave of lust that had nearly knocked him senseless when they'd kissed.

She'd felt it, too, he'd bet his life. He'd sensed her blood leaping in the veins beneath his fingers. She had tipped her head back, wordlessly inviting him to ravish her throat. He'd been nearly undone by the urge to mount her then and there, to claim her for his own. It had taken every scrap of self-control to break that kiss. It was unnerving, the force of it, as disturbing as the weight of his sudden responsibility for Poorvaja. He wasn't used to it.

It was his prolonged celibacy, he decided, lining up another shot. That was all. There wasn't anything special about Arcadia Parks in particular; she was just the first woman he'd kissed in months.

But I did it, didn't I?
he thought with a sense of vindication as a ball tipped over the lip of felt into the wicker pocket. He'd kissed her in front of those men. Spread coin around to ingratiate him in their minds. Behind the laborers, he'd spotted a couple more men he knew in passing, one a solicitor, the other a gentleman of leisure, like himself. Sheri had announced his name and Arcadia's for their benefit, knowing those two would spread the tale right where he wanted it—into the ears of Society. By the time he knocked at the door of Delafield House tomorrow, half of Mayfair would know Sheridan Zouche was engaged to Arcadia Parks. The indiscretion of their public kiss would be excused as the exuberance of the moment, evidence of their impending joy. Sheri was a known voluptuary; no one would look askance at him kissing his bride in public.

But even if Sheri was given a collective wink, Arcadia would not be so fortunate. She was compromised, even if just. Crying off would guarantee her ruin.

But, Sheri,
said a little voice in the back of his mind that sounded suspiciously like Grace,
haven't you already guaranteed her ruin?

He scowled at the tip of his cue.
Awfully insightful for a twelve-year-old, little sister,
he silently retorted, kicking back another measure of the peaty whiskey.

Miss you, Sheri.

Miss you, too, Gracie.

He sucked his teeth. Grace had never possessed the mental capacity to string together such an eloquent remark in her all-too-brief life, but the point was annoyingly sound. The very crux of his arrangement with Arcadia—their promised separation—would assure she'd never be welcome in London Society again. Sheri could play the heartbroken, abandoned husband and worm his way back into the good graces (and beds) of Society's matrons, but Arcadia would never be given such a chance. Already viewed as an outsider, she would be further scorned as a faithless wife.

Even if, at the moment, she thought she'd shake England's dust from her heels and never return, shouldn't she be fully informed before making a decision as life-altering as marriage? Sheri had the impression that Arcadia's life in India had been unconventional, to say the least. Though an English gentlewoman by birth, she was remarkably ignorant of Society's ways. When he'd attended Eton, Sheri had met a couple of lads born in India and returned to England for schooling. At twelve, they'd known as little about England as Arcadia did at—Lord, how old was she, anyway? Twenty, he presumed. Hadn't she mentioned something about inheriting on her next birthday?

In such a circumstance, the right thing to do would be to present her with all the facts and allow her to make her choice from there, even if it meant releasing her from her promise. Maybe she would like to leave open the possibility of returning to England sometime in the future. Maybe she'd like to leave open the possibility of marrying someone else.

He shuddered, physically repulsed by the thought, but why? Sheri had never harbored possessive feelings towards prior lovers. The women who took Sheri to bed were all goddesses in his mind, granting him the boon of pleasure while he returned it in kind. They parted friends, Sheri grateful for the time they'd enjoyed while recognizing that those women would go on to share their beds with others, just as he would.

Perhaps it was as simple as the fact that he'd never framed another woman in his mind as his potential spouse. Well, except for Elsa the time he'd regrettably proposed to her. Even then, it had been more a matter of casual convenience. He hadn't felt the primal sense of urgency to wed her and bed her he felt with Arcadia. If she slipped away, then … then …

He blinked, rubbed his bleary eyes. He'd have to start over, was all. Arcadia Parks presented Sheri the opportunity to fulfill his familial duty of marriage without the risk of actually having to alter the life he'd rather enjoyed living these past thirty years. It would be easy enough to find some insipid little miss to take to wife, some milquetoast creature with the proper accomplishments and a socially ambitious mama.

Of course, he reflected, Arcadia's aunt, Lady Delafield, was just as covetous of the connection to the Zouche family as any matron at Almack's. The crucial difference was that Arcadia did not share that ambition. She cared nothing about Sheri's family. She scorned his aristocratic ways.

Lord Nothing.
He laughed at the memory of her haughty set-down. Saucy minx.

“What's so funny?” asked a little voice.

Turning to the door, Sheri saw two pairs of brown eyes peering owlishly at him.

“What're you rogues doing?” he asked, propping himself on the upright cue. “Sneaking out past bedtime? Hoping to get into your father's brandy? You'll have to fight me for it.”

Giggling and grinning, his eleven-year-old twin nephews tumbled into the room on a cloud of billowing white nightshirts.

Identical at a glance, the boys had the brown eyes and straight, full brows of their Zouche forebears, but Deborah's blood had granted them lighter hair and complexions less prone to bronzing in the sun. Good-looking little rascals. In about ten years, Sheri predicted, they'd be cutting quite a swath, leaving heaps of discarded petticoats and broken hearts in their wake. He was able to discern Crispin by the impish gleam in his eye, and Webb by the wary way he glanced over his shoulder at the door.

“We never go to sleep when Nurse says,” announced Crispin, who still sported the bruise on his cheekbone from his fight defending Sheri's worthless honor. “We were reading when Giles rang the bell. We heard Papa holler, so we knew it was you.”

“No,
I
was reading,” Webb corrected his brother. “
You
were trying to determine whether you could bite your own toenails.”

“
Blech!
” Sheri stuck out his tongue and shuddered for comedic effect. “What a revolting endeavor. That's the most disgusting thing I've heard all day.” Rather than chagrined, the irrepressible Crispin looked rather pleased with himself. “So …” Craning his neck, Sheri glanced at the boy's bare toes. “Did you succeed?”

The boy dutifully extended his foot for inspection. “I managed my large toe, but couldn't turn my ankle far enough to reach the others,” he reported.

“I'm not sure whether to wish you better luck next time or suggest you find a new field of study.”

After a moment of consideration, Crispin said, “Our tutor says scientific experiments have to be repeated, so I should try again.” Drifting to his uncle's side, he tugged the quizzing glass from Sheri's waistcoat and used it to examine a scab on his arm.

Behold, the future Marquess of Lothgard
, Sheri thought. Not for the first time, he wished his own brother long life and abundant health. It was difficult to picture Crispin taking the reins of the marquisate, running the estates, sitting in the Lords, and heading the family.

“Gnawing your own toes is
not
a scientific experiment,” Webb said. The more serious-minded twin, twenty-two minutes younger than his brother, had taken an interest in the billiards table. While he scanned the balls scattered across the felt, he continued, “To be considered valid, an experiment must take place in a controlled environment and be repeatable.”

“I can do it again tomorrow night,” Crispin declared. “And I'll wear the same nightshirt to bed, so everything's the same.”

With a world-weary sigh, Webb palmed the cue ball and rolled it hard towards the rail. It bounced off the cushion to the other side, then careened back again, striking a ball and shooting it into a corner pocket.

Sheri let out a low whistle. “Did you mean to do that?”

Webb wrinkled his nose. “It's just lines, Uncle Sheri.”

True enough, but Webb took Sheri's own visualization of the table to a higher level. He swept the tip of his cue towards the rack of sticks. “Have you actually played before? Care to try your hand at a game?”

The lad eyed the implements with a longing gleam in his eye while worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “Best not. We'd get in trouble.”

Sheri scoffed. “For being out of bed? There was an uproar. Nurse will understand.”

Webb shook his head. “No, I mean … it's that …”

“We aren't supposed to talk to you,” Crispin provided. “Mama gets sad when she hears your name, and Papa is terrifically angry.” He lifted the quizzing glass to his face, blinked his magnified eye, and said in a credible imitation of his sire, “T'would be best if you mites forgot you had an uncle.”

Sheri's cheeks went oddly numb, and not just from the quantity of alcohol he'd imbibed. “He said that?” It came out a raspy whisper.

It was one thing for Lothgard to order Sheri away from the twins for the time being, but it was quite another for the marquess to tell the boys to forget their uncle existed. Sheri might not be the most shining example of a son or a brother, but he was a demmed good uncle. Not being permitted to see the boys again would be … Well, it would be like losing Grace all over again. His heart squeezed at the mental image of the simple cross marking her small grave.

Death took loved ones, and there was nothing to be done about it, but he could prevent being barred from his nephews' lives. Lothgard's demand that he marry still rankled, but Sheri wouldn't permit his own pride to come between him and his family. Any thought of releasing Arcadia Parks from their agreement was swept from his mind. They'd both given their promise. They
would
marry. He'd make sure of it.

“And Grandmama is coming from Bath,” Webb said. “I heard Papa tell Giles that the dowager marchioness was to be admitted, but not you.” He tugged his brother's arm. “We'd better go, Crisp.”